She never misses
by victorialmao
Summary: "Clove," He whispered, his lips only centimetres from her temple, "you are weak." —Rated T because it's Clove and Cato, obviously.


When she's eighteen she will be volunteering for the Hunger Games. The seventy-seventh annual Hunger Games, to add precision. Of course she will achieve victor; that's what she's been trained her whole life for. She always conquered as best in the district two training academy, succeeding every fight and excelling in all weaponry, surpassing everybody. Except for one person that Clove absolutely loathed. Cato. Brutal, bloody Cato. His arrogance made Clove want to draw his blood.

As if on cue, Cato entered. Clove scolded herself for glancing at him entering. He caught her gaze and winked at her as he encountered a spearing segment. Bastard. He picked one up and forcefully threw it fifty metres into the dummy's delicate rubber flesh. Obviously he hits the centre of the target effortlessly.

People began to leave as afternoon wore on and as evening commenced Clove was the only person left in the training centre, focused intently on a long, thin blade which seemed almost as if it were too delicate to be a weapon. She kept a tight grip on the cold handle of the throwing knife that was poised adjacent to her head while she acquired a target to impale with the flick of her wrist. She never misses.

The door as it swung closed made a small echo. Clove assumed it was the last person leaving when she felt a sturdy hand on her right leg.  
"You know it helps if you step back slightly with your right leg," An even voice implies.

Clove instantly swiveled to face the direction of the voice, releasing grip on the blade that whistled towards the opponent. Cato turned slightly to the left to avoid her attack piercing his flesh. Cato. Arrogant Cato.

"No wonder you don't have friends," He says smoothly.  
"Could say the same thing about yourself." Clove replied without missing a beat.  
"Good thing I'm still better than you or I'd be dead," Cato said and winked.  
Clove scowled and folded her arms over her chest defensively, which caused Cato to smirk at her.  
"Doubt it." She said and adorned a taunting smile upon her lips.

"Yes, because that's why I can do this," He said, suddenly and swiftly picking her up and flicking her across to the marble wall where she landed on her toes, which remained poised for any other attacks. Clove's demeanor remained undisturbed, arms still across her chest and taunting smile at her lips. Any signs of impression seen in her eyes would be a definite giveaway to Cato so Clove just shot another vocal missile at him.  
"Lifting somebody half your size and their weight halved by that again is _definitely_ skill, Cato."

Cato released almost a laugh from his throat and slightly shook his head. He tilted his head downwards to glance into Clove's eyes and put his right hand on the smooth, cold wall next to Clove's head, holding her at his arm's length, the opposite side to which the knife was. Clove was tempted to remove the knife and put him under the spell of her mercy but she thought it would be fun to tantalize him more. What Clove aimed on achieving next span out of alignment when Cato lightly brushed his lips against her own, which were locked in a scowl.

The aroma of mint lingered on her lips as she stood there in utter shock. His lips were surprisingly soft for such a brutal personality and appearance. A smirk overcame his complexion again and laughed menacingly when she felt her fingers reach up and close around the familiar metal of the knife. Clove raised her knee and pushed it into his chest that sent him backwards with the force when she pressed the silver blade to his throat that threatened to let blood spill.

Rage filled Clove's eyes.  
"Don't make me look weak," she said with a cold expression.  
"Clove," He whispered, his lips only centimetres from her temple, "you _are_ weak."  
With this statement her arms dropped to her sides, the knife obeying gravity and clattering to the stone floor of the training centre. Although this was not before Clove's repulsion of the blade struck his neck and left a long, crescent-shaped cut along his neck that ended at his prominent collarbone. Clove was not weak. To prove that, she would participate in the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games, although she was only fifteen years young. She never misses.

He carelessly swiped the maroon substance from his neck and somewhat sauntering towards the training centre exit.


End file.
